


I'm Back

by 1100



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1100/pseuds/1100
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is back and bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Hello, Sherlock._

Sherlock stared down at the two words on his phone, rereading them for the umpteenth time. After a month and seven days, he was back.

Moriarty.

"John," Sherlock called out, looking for his companion." John, where are you?"

"He went out about an hour ago," Ms. Hudson called from below. "You can always call his mobile, though."

Sherlock considered thanking the landlady, but then changed his mind, pulling out his mobile and texting John.

_John. -SH_

Sherlock looked down at his mobile, the same one Moriarty had provided him with. The pink case was an everlasting reminder of the pool. The time where he had learned John's trust in him.

A reminder of when he had almost lost John.

_John. -SH_

Restlessly, he checked his phone, yet he knew John had not yet texted back. Sherlock got up from his chair, pacing around the room.

A chime from his mobile alerted him of the text. Sherlock picked it up.

_What is it, Sherlock? -JW_

Good. John was okay.

Sherlock felt himself relax. The knowledge that his friend was safe...

_Sherlock? -JW_

Sherlock hesitated before answering, calculating the risk of sending the information via text.

_Moriarty is back. -SH_

_Do you need me at Baker Street? -JW_

_No. -SH_

When John didn't text back within a minute, Sherlock put his mobile back into his pocket, only to pull it out again a minute later when it rang.

"Hello, Sherlock," Moriarty's voice came.

"What do you want?"

"Just to warn you, Sherlock. I'm bored."

Sherlock once again pocketed his phone, and this time it stayed there. The last time Moriarty had been bored, people had died. John had been threatened. Sherlock would do everything possible to stop Moriarty from hurting John.

"Ms. Hudson, I'm going out," Sherlock called to his landlady as he slung his coat on. He tied his scarf around his neck, walking out the door.

He was going to go to where he had met Moriarty last time. The pool.

 

John Watson pocketed his phone with a sigh. Why had he even asked if Sherlock needed him? The man never did, except for when he needed John to send a text. He probably wouldn't even call Lestrade.

John shook his head as if to clear it, trying to forget about Moriarty. But he couldn't. The consulting criminal was dangerous, and had been quiet for a month. (John was sure Sherlock could correct him on that.) Who knew what he had planned this time.

John decided to return to Baker Street regardless of what Sherlock said, so he turned around and headed in that direction.

Thirty minutes later, he arrived. "Sherlock," he called as he entered the flat. No answer. "Ms. Hudson?" A repetitive silence. Where could they be?

"Hi," a lilting voice came down the stairs a moment later. But not Sherlock's, and definitely not Ms. Hudson's.

John climbed up the stairs without another thought, and found himself face to face with Jim Moriarty in exactly the same suit he had been in a month ago.

John felt someone's breath behind him, and turned just as the man jabbed a syringe forward. It entered John's chest and slowly John became sluggish. Two hands grasped his shoulders, keeping him from fighting back.

"Sherlock!" he tried to yell, hoping uselessly his friend would hear him. But it wouldn't have made any difference even if the words had gotten out of his mouth. Sherlock wasn't there. No one was.

Except for Moriarty, watching with a smile.

John struggled one last time to free himself, pushing with every fiber in his body. But it wasn't enough. He felt rope being wrapped around his hands, yet it seemed far away. Everything seemed far away.

John's eyelids began to droop until he could only see out of slits.

"Good night, Johnny boy," Moriarty's voice came through the fog.


	2. Help

Sherlock grunted in frustration at the otherwise empty pool, the noise rebounding off the walls. "There's something here. There _has_ to be!"

At a text alert from his phone, he pulled it out of his pocket.

You're right. -JM

Moriarty was watching him right now, then, knew everything that Sherlock was doing. But why hadn't Moriarty done anything besides hint of a clue?

Another text popped up on his screen, this one from John.

Where are you? -JW

John didn't need an answer; if Sherlock gave it to him, he would probably just come. John did not need to be put in harm's way again. On second thought, Sherlock sent him a text.

Don't worry. I am safe. -SH

A moment later, a faint buzz echoed through the pool. Bu that wasn't his phone, and no one else was here.

Based on where he had heard the buzz, Sherlock tried to locate the phone. When he found it, it was behind one of the lockers.

He gave it a cursory examination. It belonged to a drunk, had been in the same pocket as coins...

And then Sherlock froze. On the back was an engraving. _To Harry Watson. From Clara._

The same exact engraving on John's phone. He quickly cracked John’s passcode, looking at the texts.

Don’t worry. I am safe. –SH

Sherlock had already known it was John’s phone, but that confirmed it. Somehow, Moriarty had gotten to John.

The phone rang. Reluctantly, Sherlock answered. It was Moriarty.

"I’m surprised, Sherlock. Knowing I was back, but not insisting John was by you?" A cruel laugh echoed over the phone.

"What have you done with John?" Sherlock asked, barely able to control his anger. "Where is he?"

"Oh, Sherlock. Don’t you ever check your texts?"

Then the consulting criminal hung up.

"What did he mean, ‘check my texts’?" Sherlock asked himself, shaking his head.

Yet he did it anyway, regardless of the fact that he had no idea what he might find.

There, in his texts, from an anonymous number, was a video.

It started out black.

"Hello, Sherlock," the lilting voice of Moriarty came.

Sherlock almost smashed the phone then and there, but then the video continued, showing a gagged and unconscious John Watson, tied to a chair. Two of Moriarty’s henchmen stood beside him, one on each side. One of them shook John, waking the man.

"Sherlock," John croaked, his voice hoarse. "Where’s Sherlock?"

"Oh, John, so loyal."

Then John was whacked on the head, slipping once more into unconsciousness.

"Understand this, Sherlock. I will not hesitate to hurt John Watson. You have all the clues you need, come find me."

And then the screen went black once more.

"John," Sherlock whispered, his voice breaking. With trembling fingers, he called Lestrade.

Sally Donovan picked up the phone with a sign. "Hello, freak."

"Sally, I need to speak to Lestrade," the psychopath, his voice shaking.

The emotion in the detective's voice shocked Sally, and she nearly dropped the phone. She took a breath, steadied herself, and handed the phone to Lestrade. "It's your pet."

Lestrade shot her a puzzled look, it was the first time Donovan had used the term pet to describe Sherlock Holmes. He took the phone in hand.

"I'm busy, what is it?" the DI snapped. Obviously, Sherlock had yet to speak. Sally could tell when the detective did, a startled expression appearing on Lestrade's face as he processed the voice's implication.

"Calm down, Sherlock," Lestrade said, his voice considerate now. "I can't understand you."

Sally was leaving when a sound caused her to turn around. A choking sob could be heard issuing from the phone. Lestrade's face had grown ever worried. He suddenly slammed down the phone and whisked out of his ofice without another word, leaving Donovan to watch after him.

Sherlock sat in his chair, hands curled around his knees as he clenched them. John. The name repeated over and over in his head as tears streaked down his face. Sobs racked his slim frame as he fought to control his emotions.

Across Sherlock was John's chair, empty besides the pillow smooshed into the back.

A soft knock came at the door, accompanied by Lestrade's voice rebounding off the stairwell. "Sherlock?"

"Here, Lestrade," Sherlock called, his voice cracked beyond repair. John was in Moriarty's hands. Sherlock's mind wasn't near clear enough to find any hidden clues in Moriarty's message.

"I came as quickly as possible," the DI said as he rushed into the room, eyes taking in Sherlock, curled in the chair. "What's happened?"

"It's John." Sherlock attempted to dry his face on his coat sleeve. "Moriarty..sent me a message. It's on the phone." Sherlock indicate his phone, lying on the table. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Lestrade picked up the device, finding and playing the video. Sherlock winced as he heard John's voice calling out from the tiny speakers, followed by the sickening thud.

Lestrade looked up. "Sherlock," he said, his voice strangely compassionate. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." Sherlock steeled himself from the torrent of emotions as a sob racked him.

"We can help you track John down."

"Did you not hear the message?" Sherlock asked, turning to face the DI. "Do you really think you can find him? No, Moriarty hid these for _me._ He would have made sure no one else could find them."

"Then why aren't you already gone? The game is on and all that."

"I can't think." Sherlock placed his head between his knees. "I need John."

"I'll be your John."

"You? John?" Sherlock forced himself to laugh.

"Well, I'm glad you still have your ability to ridicule me," Lesrade bit as he left.

Sherlock picked up his phone, replaying the video.

　

　

　


End file.
